ixed feelings, foremost among which was keen regret. Except for the
company of his Scandinavian hired man and the latter's hard-featured
wife, he had lived alone in Spartan simplicity, thinking of nothing but
his farm; and his guests' arrival had revealed to him the narrowness of
his life. They had brought him new desires and thoughts, besides
recalling ideas he had long forgotten, and among other things had made
the evening meal a pleasant function to be looked forward to, instead of
an opportunity for hurriedly consuming needed food.

The spotless cloth and the flowers on the table were novelties, but they
pleased his eye. Colston with his cheerful, well-bred air and
fastidiousness in dress, talked interestingly; Mrs. Colston with her
gracious dignity, and Muriel, who was wholly alluring, seemed to fill the
room with charm. It was perhaps all the more enjoyable because Prescott
had been accustomed to pleasant society in Montreal, before he abandoned
it with other amenities and went out to a life of stern toil and
frugality in the grim Northwest.

He said little, though it was the last time they would gather tranquilly
round his board--they were to leave for the railroad early on the morrow.
A heavy melancholy oppressed him, though bright sunlight streamed into
the room and an invigorating breeze swept in through the open window,
outside which tall wheat and blue flax rolled away. He could not force
himself to talk, though he laughed at Colston's anecdotes, and it was a
relief when the meal was over. Half an hour later he overtook Muriel
strolling along the edge of the wheat.

"Have you recovered yet?" she asked. "You looked very downcast."

"That's how I feel. It strikes me as perfectly natural. I'll be alone
to-morrow."

"But you were alone before we came."

"Very true; I didn't seem to mind it then. I was happy thinking how I
could put in a bigger crop or raise another bunch of stock. My mind was
fixed on the plow. But you have lifted me out of the furrow. I guess it's
weak, but somehow I hate the thought of going back to the clods."

Remembering Jernyngham's remarks, it struck him that this was not the
line he should have taken, and for a moment or two Muriel turned her
head. Then she looked at him, smiling.

"I shall be very sorry to leave, and I believe Florence and Harry feel
the same."

"But you are going to British Columbia and down the Pacific Coast. You
will revel in new experiences and interesting